I’ve not been cooking a huge amount, so when a Monday night in arrives, it makes the meal all the more momentous. Fearful that every shop in London would be closed on Bank Holiday Monday, I was sure that I would be scouring my cupboards for anything I could turn into a meal with either rice or pasta. This wouldn’t have been a terrible thing, but luckily De Beauvoir was in full swing and a perusal of the butcher’s aisle meant catching a look at 400g of lamb mince, which I knew were destined to be turned into meatballs. The pasta aisle also brought the goods – the elusive fusilli lunghi that I’ve been searching for all year, in plain sight. The scene was set. Only a can of fancy tomatoes to go (I rarely use the stuff, so when I do, I go extra, which, yes, is my MO for food anyway). There was chicken stock in the fridge and a jar of sheep’s milk yoghurt to fluff up the meatballs. I knew I’d make too much so I put a call out to some wonderful friends who work nearby to come over if they wanted lamb meatballs. We drank beers and wine and ate big bowls of the stuff on our laps, bringing the pot into the living room for seconds and thirds. I was proud and full on both meatballs and pure joy.
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